


Poet in My Heart

by UbiquitousMixie



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8686762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/pseuds/UbiquitousMixie
Summary: Bernie is a paradox.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitnkabootle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle/gifts).



> Hopelessly hooked on this pairing. 100% Berena trash. I hope you enjoy!   
> The prompt for this fic is from Sara by Fleetwood Mac. Comments are love.

_said you’d give me light, but you never told me about the fire._

-

Serena is met with silence when she lets herself into Bernie’s flat. She locks the door behind her and toes off her shoes, progressing quietly into the inner sanctum of Bernie’s home. What was once a burial ground for takeout containers and piles of clothes (clean or dirty? -- a daily Russian roulette) has been fastidiously tidied now that Serena comes round on a regular basis. (“If you expect me to spend the night, Berenice, you must at least clear a path for me to walk.”) 

Setting her bag down on the counter in the small kitchen, Serena notes with a smile that there is an unopened bottle of shiraz on the counter beside two sparklingly clean glasses. There is also a crusty, buttery chocolate croissant on a plate beside it -- medicinal, of course -- and Serena is touched. She’d love to nibble a corner, just to take the edge off a long day on her feet, but she’s more interested in discovering the whereabouts of the woman responsible for such thoughtfulness. 

The woman in question is lying on the couch, her woolen-clad feet propped on the arm. She is asleep, and Serena bites her lip to note how peaceful Bernie looks like this, a far cry from the occasionally restless nights to which she has become accustomed. Serena’s never asked, but she’s quite sure that her soldier’s troubled sleep may be the result of one too many battlefield horrors. The consultant never wakes Bernie during these fits, but she does hold her tighter, reminding her even in sleep that she is not alone. To see Bernie slumbering now with such ease clenches at Serena’s heart. 

Serena gently eases herself beside Bernie’s hip on the sofa, leaning forward to brush the fringe from her forehead. She’s careful not to disturb her, though her fingers linger. She’s ached to touch her all day, but she can wait a little longer. Being here with her, able to look at her and feel the solid presence of her, is a comfort in itself after long months of separation.

Lying open on Bernie’s chest is a hardcover book -- _The Essential Neruda._ Serena would never have taken her big macho army medic as a poetry enthusiast, but perusing the other woman’s cramped bookshelf for the first time had clued her in otherwise. Beneath that tough, complex exterior lies the heart of a true romantic, Serena knows, and this knowledge still surprises her. She would have guessed that a woman with a keen interest in poetic verse might not be so terrible with words, but Bernie Wolfe is nothing if not a paradox. 

Her choice for this evening is particularly interesting, and fills Serena in on so much. The haunting, desperate, passionate, aching poetry of Pablo Neruda is as much hopeful about love as it is melancholic. Curious, Serena gently takes up the book and looks at well worn, well loved dogeared page. The Potter. Dark eyes skim the words, reading and rereading the final lines that have been underlined: _and together we are complete like one single river, like one single grain of sand._ A warmth fills her, followed by the sting of jealousy. When did Berenice deface her beloved book, and about whom did these words strike such meaning? She still has very little inkling about Bernie’s past, about the women before her, before Alex. 

And then, on the table, she finds an uncapped pen. 

Her jealousy ebbs. A question for later, perhaps.

There is so much that Serena has yet to learn about this woman. She wants to know it all -- every kiss, every heartache, every secret, every success, every failure. She wants to study Bernie Wolfe, master in Bernie Wolfe, earn a doctorate in Bernie Wolfe. What she’s discovered thus far -- and has fallen hopelessly, maddeningly, desperately in love with -- has only scratched the surface. She hopes (foolishly? romantically?) for a lifetime to learn, to peer beneath each layer until she is satisfied that she knows her fully, completely. 

Serena is so lost in contemplation the Bernie’s soft “hello you” is startling and warming at once. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Serena says quietly, setting the book on the small, repurposed table. She leans in closer, toys with a strand of sunkissed hair, and smiles. 

“You didn’t.” Her hand reaches up, cupping Serena’s cheek, pulling her down for a kiss that leaves Serena breathless. 

It shocks her still how quickly Bernie can change, how a woman ensconced in sleep can become all hot intensity. Her fingers slip into Serena’s hair, scratching at her scalp, holding her close to keep her from pulling away -- as if she could. As if she would ever be ridiculous enough to ever, ever let Bernie go very far again. 

Bernie gives her happiness, but that intensity still burns her up. It’s startling and mildly alarming that one person has so much power, how they can be at once immense light and blinding fire. But this is her Bernie. She can’t resist her anymore than she can resist breathing. 

She smirks to witness Bernie stifling a yawn. “Long day?” 

“I’m feeling much more awake now that you’re here.” Another yawn. 

“To bed with you, soldier.” 

Bernie furrows her brow -- how is it possible to look so bloody endearing with a pout? “I had plans for you tonight. I will rally.” 

Serena shakes her head. “The wine can wait.” She takes up the book. “I’ll read to you until you fall back to sleep.” 

She expects, at first, for Bernie to wave off the suggestion, but her sleep-heavy eyes note first the book and then Serena's steadfast expression, and she relents. “You do spoil me, Ms. Campbell.” 

“That is rather the idea.” She gets to her feet, holding out a hand to Bernie. She tugs her to her feet and they walk, hands clasped, toward the little flat’s bedroom. At the doorway, Serena pauses. “There _is_ the matter of that pastry, though…” 

Bernie laughs, her tired, throaty chuckle music to Serena’s ears. “Get it. I don’t mind crumbs in my bed.” 

“As if I’d leave crumbs in the bed.” 

But Serena goes for the pastry anyway, and follows Bernie to bed. 

\---


End file.
